George Chesbro - Two Songs This Archangel Sings

I stood up on the back seat, then, as the driver's revolver again swung around in my direction, bounced up and over into the front seat, landing head first in the driver's lap and stripping his hand from the wheel. The car immediately went out of control, into a shrieking power slide. I rolled over into the passenger's seat, slid down onto the base of my spine, and planted both feet on the dashboard just as the car hit the shoulder, abruptly stopped skidding, and began to roll. Pushing with all my might against the dashboard, I closed my eyes and held my breath as the car bounced and rolled in a bone-jarring, kaleidoscopic cascade of nauseating motion and a cacophony of shattering glass, snapping plastic, and tearing metal. Through it all, I somehow managed to stay braced in my position.

Finally, what was left of the car came to a rest. Glass tinkled, metal groaned, steam hissed. Slowly, I opened my eyes, saw the reason why my back felt ready to break and the muscles in my legs ready to tear loose from their joints; I was upside down. I couldn't see the man who had been in the back seat with me, but I thought it quite safe to assume he was dead. I also found it immensely satisfying to see that, while the driver's seat belt had kept him securely fastened in his seat, the steering column had collapsed in on him and crushed his chest. Powdered safety glass was everywhere, covering the interior of the car-and me-like sharp, scratchy snow. There was pain in every muscle and bone in my body, but it was welcome pain; it meant my back hadn't been broken. Indeed, I doubted that anything major was broken; if it were, I wouldn't have been able to remain braced. I accepted the pain as a celebration of life.

From somewhere outside my disoriented, upside-down universe, I heard the sound of gunfire and felt sick at the thought that my brother might be dead. At the same time I smelled gasoline, and knew I was likely to be dead very soon myself if I didn't get out of the wreck fast. I relaxed the tension in my legs and dropped the short distance to the inverted roof of the car, landing on my left shoulder and crumpling into a heap.

I'd always had excellent control of my body, and years in the circus combined with the training Veil and other martial artists had given me had allowed me to expand and refine that control to a high degree. I used that control now to arch my back and drop my right shoulder almost to the point of dislocation; that allowed me to draw my cuffed hands under my hips and down the length of my legs, putting them in front of me. I searched through the glass and twisted metal, got lucky and found one of the men's guns. I made a quick, rolling exit out through the gaping hole left by the shattered windshield, got to my feet, and ran as fast as I could away from the car just seconds before it exploded, knocking me to the ground. I rolled over onto my belly, ducked, and hunched my shoulders against the flaming debris and black smoke that rained and swirled around me, pointed the gun in what I hoped was the general direction of the highway.

What I saw when the smoke cleared didn't look good. The second Chevrolet had skidded to a stop at a sharp angle off the side of the highway, and Madison's men were behind it, their backs to me, trading gunfire with four troopers who were shielded by their own cars, forty or fifty yards away.

There was no sign of Garth.

I raised the gun with my cuffed hands, carefully sighted down the barrel on the back of one of the men, and shot him between the shoulder blades. His arms flew up in the air as he arched and fell stiffly backward. Startled, the second man ducked away from the trooper's fire, turned, and saw me at the same time as I squeezed off two shots; one bullet caught him in the face, the other in the chest. I was up and running even before he hit the ground.

Fortunately for me, the troopers had stopped firing when the two men had disappeared from sight. My muscles fueled by fear at what I might find inside the Chevrolet, I sprinted up the slight incline, yanked open a rear door on the bullet-scarred car. To my immense relief, I found Garth huddled on the floor, where he had rolled in order to avoid the hail of bullets. He appeared unhurt, and his eyes went wide with both joy and concern when he saw me.

"Mongo! You're shot!"

At first I didn't understand, until I looked down and realized that I was covered with blood. "I had to take a little nip out of a guy," I said as I dropped the gun and grabbed two handfuls of Garth's parka and helped him out of the car. "It's his blood, not mine."

The four troopers, with Captain McGarvey in the lead, came running toward us, guns drawn, along the shoulder of the highway. When McGarvey saw us walk out from behind the car, he abruptly stopped and holstered his gun, motioning for the others to do the same. Then McGarvey walked slowly toward us, disbelief written all over his face as he stared at me.

"Frederickson," the captain said, "how the hell did you survive that car crash?"

"Oh, that? Surviving flaming car crashes is just a routine part of Russian spy training. You'd be amazed how many candidates they mash or burn up before they get somebody like me who can do it right."

McGarvey didn't smile. "Are you all right? You're covered with blood."

"Like I was telling Garth, most of it doesn't belong to me. How about getting our cuffs off?"

"Sorry, Frederickson," McGarvey mumbled as he produced a set of keys from his pocket and freed my hands, then Garth's. "I still don't understand what's going on, but you were certainly on target when you said I shouldn't turn you over to those men."

"Don't worry about being sorry," I said as a trooper brushed past me and walked to join one of his colleagues, who was angrily waving on rubbernecking drivers. "I'm just happy you changed your mind and came after us."

"I wish I could take credit for changing my mind, but that's not what happened. We got a call five minutes after those guys drove off with you. There's someone who wants to talk to you."

"Who?"

"Come on," McGarvey said, motioning for us to follow him to the trooper cars. "There's a good motel a few miles back where you can clean up and get some rest. The rooms will be courtesy of New York State."

"We need our backpacks."

"No. Everything we have stays with us for the time being. If you'll give me your sizes, I'll see that you get fresh clothes-also courtesy of New York State."

"Hold on a minute," I said, stopping, then taking a step backward to stand beside Garth. "Your concern is touching, Captain, and I mean no disrespect to you when I say that you must have received one whopper of a phone call. Who was on the other end this time, and who wants to talk to us?"

"You'll see."

"What the hell does that mean?"

"It means I can't tell you, Frederickson," McGarvey said in a slightly embarrassed tone. "Give me a break."

"Give you a break?! Damn, Captain, I love your material. Are we still under arrest?"

"No… uh, not technically."

"Still, if it's all the same to you, we'll pass on the motel and save the state some money. We're safer in your lockup; you can leave the cell doors open if it makes you feel better."

McGarvey shook his head. "They want you in a hotel or motel-the best. We'll put a guard on you."

"How long will it be before we get to meet this person?"

"I don't know."

"What do you know?"

"Whoever it is has to come from Washington. Besides that, all I've been told is that you're to be well taken care of."

The thought of a hot shower, a good meal, clean sheets and a soft bed was certainly inviting-but I couldn't help but remember what had happened to Colonel Po when Orville Madison had decided to pay Henry Kitten's fee for an "extra assignment." If Henry Kitten were to be sicced on us, the assassin would also find the thought of us in a hotel or motel inviting.